


Nobody Knows (Where They Might End Up)

by ErinBurr_sir



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst?, Fluff, Grey's Anatomy AU, M/M, So Much Awkwardness, in which Barry can't handle alcohol and pays the price, prepare to cringe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinBurr_sir/pseuds/ErinBurr_sir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as Barry Allen is preparing to start his surgical internship at Central City Hospital, his best friend suggests a healthy round of drinks to ease any last-minute nerves. Except one drink leads to two which leads to seven which leads to Barry waking up next to a very strange, very attractive man. Which would all be fine and well if not for the fact that that man happens to be Barry's new boss, and all the medicine in the world can't cure the sexual tension between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Knows (Where They Might End Up)

_Oh, shit._

Barry awoke with a start, and instantly regretted it. Sunlight streamed through his bedroom window, burning his eyes. He put up one hand to block the brightness; black spots blurred his vision. His head ached, the room swam. _Why_ had he had that seventh shot of tequila; Cisco was wrong, alcohol was not your friend. He blindly reached out a hand to turn off his alarm clock to stop his blaring alarm from sounding; instead his hand landed on warm flesh.

_No no no no no…_

He slowly, cautiously, _fearfully_ turned his head to the man asleep on his left. The morning light illuminated his features, his close-cropped, greying hair, face relaxed in the repose of sleep, shirtless...

_Shit._

So that _hadn't_ all been a dream. Everything from last night was a blur, a blank slate with only a few memories that hadn't been drowned in tequila. Ice-blue eyes and a kind smile, a mouth that tasted like White Russians, a hand on his waist, the sound of belts being unbuckled, clothes tossed haphazardly onto the floor, kisses being rained down on his bare skin, from his mouth down to his …

_Shit._

_Shit shit shit shit shit…_

This could not be happening, not today, of all days. He sat up as slowly as the shooting pain in his head would allow, wrapped part of the blanket around his waist as he fished for his clothes among the sea of clothing strewn across his bedroom floor. He found them, but tossed them aside once he smelled the strong stench of alcohol that clung to them. He took a nervous glance at his sleeping companion, determined that he was fast asleep, then hurried across the room to his dresser. He chose jeans and a simple t-shirt, taking care to stay especially quiet. There was a strange tingly feeling in his stomach as he dressed, but maybe that was due to the excessive amount of tequila his body was still burning off, or the fact that he was probably going to be late on his first day, or that he'd just had a one-night stand with a _complete stranger._ He wasn't a one-night stand kind of guy; he was an unrequited love kind of guy, the kind who stayed up late into the night writing 12-step plans on how to get her to stop thinking of him as a friend (Had Iris been at the bar last night, had she seen him acting like a drunken fool, kissing a man he'd just met?).

It wasn't until Barry was pulling on his socks that he remembered what that nagging feeling was.

His alarm.

Before he could dart across the room to silence the device, the clock struck 6:30 and began blaring whatever song was currently playing on Central City radio; this morning it was Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”. The man on his bed woke with a start and sat up, ice blue eyes wildly scanning the room, from Barry and the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face to the trail of clothes and finally to the alarm clock. For several awful seconds the only sound in the room was the sound of Gwen Stefani singing B-A-N-A-N-A-S, until the man finally pressed the snooze button. Barry breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the silence. 

But then that silence stretched on … and on … and on. Oh God, this was so much worse. It must have been only a few seconds, but it felt like so. much. longer. Barry’s hands twitched. _Say, something, you idiot,_ a voice inside his head screamed. _Something, anything, literally_ anything _is better than this!_

“Good morning,” he squeaked. _Except that!_ Oh, God, this was so bad, _why_ had he gone out last night? There was a slight pause _(No, not this again, please)._

“... morning,” the man responded curtly, voice rough, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked outside at the perfectly manicured lawns and tree-lined streets characteristic of the suburbs just outside Central City with something that was a cross between disgust and confusion, brow furrowed. “Where the hell am I?”

“Uh, right outside the city,” Barry answered. He could feel the red in his cheeks, and if he could see his face, he knew it’d be burning like a thousand red giants. He felt slightly nauseous and dizzy, and it wasn’t from his hangover. “It's my dad's house,” he added, as if that _didn’t_ make him look even more like the loser who still lived at home. _Idiot._

The stranger looked him up and down, seeming to finally take in the person in front of him: Barry, in all his lanky, awkward glory, hair uncombed and sticking up in a hundred different directions, red-faced and fumbling over his words; the rows of equally beat-up Converse sneakers peeking out from the closet; the superhero posters on the walls and Stormtrooper action figure on the dresser. The man's eyes narrowed in suspicion; Barry squirmed under his gaze, but those blue eyes were like tractor beams, and Barry was caught in their path.

“How old are you, kid?”

It was at this moment that Barry Allen’s mortal soul left his body, unable to physically handle the embarrassment and panic racing through his body. 

“T-twenty seven,” he managed to sputter out, face burning. How he wished very much in that moment to be dead. _If there really a God, can He please send down a lightning bolt and end me right now,_ he thought. It would be very much appreciated. He began mentally planning his tombstone: _Here lies Barry Allen, whose poor life choices and babyface sent him to an early grave._

“Good,” the man said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed (blanket thankfully still covering his waist) to pick up the nearest article of clothing (luckily his pants and underwear were within arm’s reach). When he bent over, Barry could see tight muscles stretch under pale skin; he flashed back to the memory of strong arms around him, practically carrying him into his room, lips locked together in a passionate kiss. _Don't stare, don't stare…_

He stood there awkwardly while the man dressed, first pulling on a pair of well fitted black boxer briefs, then some black jeans. _Don't stare, don't stare…_

Barry noticed he was being watched. _Shit._ The man was standing before him, silhouette outlined by the morning sun. He was only an inch or two shorter than Barry, and slight, yet still had an appreciable amount of muscle. He wasn’t stacked with muscles, but just looking at his bare torso one could see the faint outline of something more; Barry recalled the feeling of brushing his hand against those strong almost-abs as he eagerly attempted to tug the other man’s shirt over his head, fingers clumsy, lips still occupied with desperate, breathless kisses.

_Shit._

The man cleared his throat (had he caught Barry staring? He’d definitely been staring) and gestured to something on the floor. Barry looked down to find a light grey sweater next to his left foot. “Right, sorry,” he said. He picked it up (it was made of soft cotton; he remembered the texture when he had finally succeeded in pulling it over the man’s head and tossing it aside) and handed it to the man. He pulled in on and smoothed out some creases in the fabric.

The man glanced at the alarm clock. 6:34 _(How had it only been 4 minutes?_ Barry thought. _It felt like 400._

“Well as fun as all this has been,” the man drawled, “I really should be going.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Barry babbled, relief spreading through his body at the thought that this excruciating moment would soon be over. He was about to ask the other man how he would get home, but remembered he had driven them here (in a classic yellow Chevrolet that smelled of leather and would have given Cisco an instant nerdgasm if he had seen it). 

The man headed for the door, Barry practically diving out of his way. The man stopped long enough to collect his shoes (but not put them on, Barry was grateful for that), then opened the bedroom door. He glanced back briefly, a look on his face that hinted he wanted to say more, but if that were true, he didn’t let on. Barry watched him walk down the hall, footsteps silent (even on that squeaky step Barry could never avoid) and soon heard the reassuring sound of the door opening and closing, followed shortly by a car engine starting.

He breathed a long sigh of relief and flopped backwards onto the bed, pressing his palms into his eyes as even more memories from last night filtered through his hazy mind, all of them enough to cause blood to spread to his cheeks and another body part…

_Shit._

He snuck a peek at the clock. 6:37. He had to be at work by 7:30. Groaning, he dragged himself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom, hoping a shower would get rid of the tequila smell that seemed to be seeping out of his pores. The last thing he needed was to show up for his first day of work smelling like a Mexican truck stop.

He glanced at his reflection in the dresser mirror, at the disheveled hair, the all-too-obvious hickies along his neck and collarbone, the lingering red in his cheeks. _Shit._ He picked up his phone, lock screen bursting from the multitude of texts Cisco had sent him the night before:

_Where r u?_  
_Did you leave with that dude?_  
_Holy shit you did didn’t you_  
_Holy shit_  
_hOLY SHIT_  
_Barry Allen you fucking fox_  
_Good for you man good for you_  
_(Caitlin says wear protection)_  
_ANSWER MEEEE_  
_Was he good tho_  
_Fine fuck it ignore me_  
_But you bet your ass we’re talking about this tomorrow_

Barry groaned.  
Fan-fucking-tastic.


End file.
